


100% husband material (do not dry-clean)

by limeprint



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bed-sharing, Childhood friends to strangers to lovers, Drinking, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Sexual Jokes, Swearing, atsumu clowning, komori motoya is a magical girl enthusiast, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeprint/pseuds/limeprint
Summary: “Remember when we were kids, and you said you’d marry me once we’d turn twenty-five?” Komori Motoya asserts breezily. “I think now’s the time.”or; Miya Osamu learns to take childhood promises seriously.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Komori Motoya/Miya Osamu
Comments: 26
Kudos: 55





	100% husband material (do not dry-clean)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spills/gifts).



> fun drinking game for this fic: drink every time komori mentions a new magical girl anime
> 
> additional warnings:  
> \- surprise suna rarepair ahead  
> \- there's implied sexual content but it's not osakomo's. none of that happens with the main pairing nor is described in any way  
> \- covid is A Thing in this fic cause i love making things harder for myself
> 
> THANK U [plumli](https://twitter.com/plumli_kl) for being the best beta

The digital clock on the kitchen island signals 1.03 a.m.

Appropriately nestled on the couch, Osamu sinks comfortably into the pillows, nothing but his arm sticking out from the blanket that’s trained up to his chin, allowing him to scroll idly through the string of birthday messages that has been making his phone ping ever since the stroke of midnight. He chuckles heartily at Rintarou’s _hows the old age treating u_ , in direct contrast with Akaashi’s polite _Happy Birthday, Miya-san :)_ , which he actually deems worthy of a respectful _thank you, akaashi-san, onigiri’s on me next time_. 

He swipes off the notification for a bunch of missed calls — three from Atsumu, one from Gin — which he had not-so-accidentally ignored (he’d only bothered answering his grandma’s and Kita’s, who might not be a blood relative but admittedly holds more power over him than his parents ever did).

It’s now 1.07, which means he has about nine hours to celebrate in solitude before Atsumu barges in unannounced in the name of his surprise birthday visit — which hasn’t been a surprise since, like, never, given that his twin has been doing it every year starting from the day they’ve stopped sharing a house — with the excuse that they’ve already spent every birthday together since birth, and apparently it’d be a pity to stop now. (Osamu doesn’t exactly get it — Atsumu has always been more for traditions than he ever was — but he guesses he can fix some breakfast for two tomorrow.)

October 5 falls on a Monday this year, which is awesome news, because it means he can enjoy the first week of his twenty-fifth year of life in the peace of his empty apartment before he has to face whatever mess of a party Atsumu is planning to throw on Saturday night. 

So, he has about nine hours of peace, and he’s gonna make sure that —

_Ding ding ding_.

Osamu’s phone slips from his fingers, falling on the sofa with a thump.

Was that the doorbell?

_Diiing ding ding_.

Okay, so, he’s going to get this, because his mother didn’t raise no jerk who would leave a guest on the doorstep — that’s the only thing convincing him to discard the warmth of the blanket and make a beeline to the door — but he _swears_ that if Atsumu abruptly decided to show up in the middle of the night, there will be nothing stopping him from choosing violence — 

“Hey there, happy birthday!” 

Osamu blinks once, then blinks again, just to be sure he isn’t hallucinating, even though there’s no mistaking it. Unequivocal round eyebrows that would make a fun look on any comic character, mask dangling from one ear coupled with a blinding smile not so different from the one he used to sport as a snotty child, and copper brown hair sticking up sideways as if assaulted by the wind.

“Remember when we were kids, and you said you’d marry me once we’d turn twenty-five?” Komori Motoya asserts breezily. “I think now’s the time.”

Then, under Osamu’s incredulous stare, he makes a tangible effort to disentangle from the yellow cotton scarf that somehow got stuck into the zip of his jacket, and extends his right arm, holding a plain shopping bag with a somewhat familiar logo. “How do you feel about pancakes?”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


It’s not like Osamu hasn’t heard of Komori in years. He has, mostly from Atsumu, consistently whining about his painfully reliable digs whenever the MSBY Black Jackals go up against EJP Raijin. (That’s on him for having a professional volleyball player as a brother.)

He's seen him, too — on TV, during said games, and on Rintarou's Instagram stories, showing up on his feed continuously ever since Rin had first joined the Division 1 team, both Komori and their middle blocker Washio Tatsuki a steady presence in his unnecessarily aesthetic-worthy updates. (They’re currently on a mission to try out and rate every boba place in Shizuoka, and of course Suna Rintarou would make sure to broadcast every second of it.)

The thing is, there’s a remarkable difference between spotting him on a screen and the sight of him curled up on Osamu's couch.

Where Osamu had to physically shove him the night before.

  
  
  


_"When ya said pancakes, I thought ya meant, ya know_ — pancakes _." A pained grunt. "Not the_ ingredients _for pancakes."_

_"DIYs are trendy these days."_

_"... Didja drive here from Shizuoka?"_

_“I don’t have a car.”_ _  
  
_

_“So ya paid for a cab. For a four-hour drive.”_

_"Maybe!"_

_"To ask me to marry ya."_

_"Possibly?"_

_"And I'm guessin’ ya don't have a place to stay tonight."_

_"... Yeah."_

  
  
  


Then Osamu had insisted for Komori to take the couch, because there was no way they were going to have that conversation at one in the morning and he refused to let him wander out in the cold to find some sketchy motel, leading up to his current predicament.

Komori Motoya looks exactly as expected when he sleeps.

He looks evil. Dotted, perfectly oval eyebrows frowned just slightly, pink lips curved into a pout that is all too ridiculously endearing. A menace to Osamu's heart — well, to anyone's heart, he swears. One mighty harbourer of chaos shaped like an angel wrapped into a cute little package, big red ribbon and all.

He looks exactly like a person who would show up at your doorstep the night of your birthday, at a point in your life where you're finally on your way to stability, and offer you pancakes, except they're disassembled pancakes, and ask you to marry him, and leave you tempted to say yes.

Not that Osamu is tempted to say yes.

He’d like to deem himself a sane man, thank you very much.

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Motoya is familiar with regret. Call it stubbornness, call it determination, call it unadulterated idiocy — Kiyoomi’s words, not his (isn’t his cousin lovely?) — but Motoya has this natural-almost-biological tendency to make questionable decisions, deal with questionable consequences, feel a customary wave of regret, and follow up with messier, improved questionable choices. 

As a direct result, regret might as well be Motoya’s true best friend by now — _suck it, Kiyoomi_ — so when he happens to wake up in his childhood-best-friend turned distant-acquaintance’s apartment because of yesterday’s poor decision-making skills, he just owns it and settles down at the table, where Miya Osamu balances a tower of pancakes before laying back against the counter, arms crossed, looking at him expectantly.

He guesses he owes the man some explanations. 

“Well, basically, my mom kind of really wants to see me get married,” Motoya starts, not before grabbing a plate and serving himself a generous portion of pancakes. “So after high school we kind of made a pact that I could only go pro if I _kiiind_ of promised to find a spouse at some point.”

At first, one tiny part of him had hoped this would be a no-judgement zone. He’s obliged to watch his hopes die immediately, because, assuming from the look he’s giving him right now, Osamu is already judging him. Hard. 

And he hasn’t even gotten to the best part yet.

“Obviously, I wasn’t too eager for it,” he subtly avoids the other’s eyes, opting to stare at the wilting plant on the corner of the windowsill instead. “So I promised I’d only get married once Kiyoomi did.”

“Oh _no_.”

The pity in Osamu’s voice is overwhelming, Motoya feels _thoroughly_ judged, and the need to defend himself may or may not result in a pitiful whine on his part. “C’mon, have you ever talked to him? He barely tolerates me, and I’m his closest friend. I didn’t think he would ever bear anyone enough to _marry_ them.”

  
Osamu raises an exasperated hand to his face. “But then Hinata came up.”

“But then Hinata came up, and I have a feeling you’ve heard, but the ceremony is in two months.” Apparently, a wedding during New Year’s break is a better idea to Kiyoomi than waiting for the volleyball season to end in April. Though it might have something to do with Hinata planning to leave for Brazil again in January.

Osamu scoffs loudly. “Oh, I’ve heard alright. ‘Tsumu won’t stop callin’ at ungodly hours to cry over his hopeless crush gettin’ married to his other, even more hopeless crush, and how his sorry ass will be sad and alone for the rest of his life.”

“Yeah, and I have until my cousin seals the deal before _my_ sorry ass is all out of excuses not to get married.”

Squinting, the other eyes him doubtfully. “Ya do know yer a financially independent adult now, right? Yer mom can’t just stop ya from goin’ pro anymore.”

“Is nothing sacred to you?” He brings a palm to rest above his heart. “I promised!”

Osamu blinks, unconvinced. _No-judgement zone my ass._

“Also...” Motoya lowers his voice to a mutter, coughing out as casually as possible. “I may have already told my mom I proposed to you.”

“You what.”

“You said yes, by the way.”

“What the fuck, Komori?”

“I didn’t lie! I did propose, and you said yes!”

“Yeah, when we were seven fuckin’ years old!”

“A promise is a promise!”

“Does yer mother even remember me?”

“Of course she does! You came over all the time back when I was in Amagasaki.”

That seems to placate him a little, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Yer grandma’s apple pie was so good.”

For a moment, the kitchen is peacefully quiet, words lost in the memory of a decade of summers, and sweat, and evening strolls under the starry sky, and Motoya briefly wonders if Osamu can also taste his mother’s ice lemonade on his tongue — but then Osamu seems to catch himself, the frown coming back in full force, and Motoya is forced to raise his palms in surrender. “Okay, I get it! I get it. You’re not marrying me. Well, it was worth a try.” 

He finally stabs his pancakes with a chopstick, determined to scarf them down at record speed. If he's not getting a husband out of this, he should at least secure himself a good breakfast.

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Miya Atsumu loves surprise visits — no, he _adores_ them, mostly because, being unexpected and all, they imply he cannot be late. So if he plans to be at his Osamu’s at 9 a.m. sharp and only lands in front of his door at 10 something, well, no one has a right to give him shit for it.

He discards his mask and his cap, mussing his flattened, freshly dyed blonde hair, and punches in the code he’d forced Osamu to share with him in case of emergencies (those times when he can’t be bothered to do laundry and he needs to drop by to borrow all of Osamu’s sweatpants are real emergencies, no matter what his twin has to say about it).

The door clicks open and Atsumu slips out of his shoes, announcing his presence with a loud greeting. He waddles into the living room, ready to make himself comfortable on the usual seat on the couch and launch on a full rant about the actual love of his life getting hitched with his crush of three years, when he realizes his spot is already taken.

By EJP Raijin’s libero, Itachiyama graduate, childhood nightmare Komori Motoya.

“Hey man,” the offender beams at him from where he’s slouched, shooting poorly coordinated finger guns at him. “Happy birthday!”

Atsumu retreats to the kitchen.

“‘Samu, is there somethin’ you'd like to tell me?”

His brother turns thoughtful from where he’s fumbling with a pan at the stove. “Not really, no.”

Atsumu’s patience is running thin.

“Like, why is Komori Motoya on yer couch?”

Osamu pointedly stares at the wall.

_Unbelievable_. 

Atsumu gasps. “I can’t believe yer bonin’ a Division 1 libero and ya didn’t bother tellin’ me.”

“We’re not bonin’.”

A bright voice reaches them from the living room. “We’re getting married.”

The blonde’s jaw slacks against his will. “Why is everyone but me gettin’ married?”

“We’re _not_ gettin’ married,” Osamu retorts, brandishing a vaguely threatening spatula Atsumu’s way, and to be honest, Atsumu is really not feeling the aggressive vibes. In fact, he’s confused and mildly alarmed and kinda tempted to walk out and treat himself to some pastries at the café down the road instead.

Then again, he did drive all the way here for his birthday brunch — and to vent a bit — and Osamu is already sliding a bowl of rice in front of him, so he just washes his hands, plops down on the nearest chair, and does what he came here for.

  
  
  
  


Komori turns out to be a way better listener than Osamu ever was.

For starters, he doesn’t doze off after only forty minutes of intense chit-chat, and secondly, he doesn’t call Atsumu a brainless amoeba.

“And then Shouyou-kun says, and I quote, _it’s okay, Atsumu-san, Kiyoomi says you can sleep over at his place anytime even when I’m back in Brazil!_ Like, does he not realize what he’s doin’ to me?”

“I can’t believe he would be that blind. I get my cousin, ‘cause he’s got zero social clues, but Hinata too?” 

Atsumu can’t say he’s not pleased with the invested response. Kinda feels like shit-talking people with Suna, but without the whole go-king-give-us-nothing attitude.

He glances to where Osamu is rinsing his plate in the kitchen sink. “Yo, ‘Samu, can we keep him?”

“He’s not a homeless dog.”

  
“But he doesn’t have a home,” he turns to their guest. “Am I right, Motoya-kun?”

If Atsumu isn’t wrong, and mind you, he is often wrong, but not with volleyball-related things, EJP follows the same schedule as the Black Jackals, meaning that they’re free from practice until next Monday, when they’ll dive into a week of intense training before the V.League season starts on October 17, and that Komori is probably planning to stay in Osaka until the weekend.

The libero fidgets with his chopsticks, hesitant. “I mean, I don’t exactly have a place here in Osaka, and Rin is monopolizing our apartment in Shizuoka ‘cause his supersecret fuckbuddy is staying over for the week, and I’m currently avoiding my mother at least until the wedding, but —”

“So ya need a place where to stay.”

  
“I can just find some hotel —”

  
“Yer stayin’.”

Osamu’s head whips so fast Atsumu is concerned for his neck. “‘Tsumu.”

“‘Samu,” Atsumu holds his twin’s murderous stare with practised ease. “You’re not blowin’ yer first chance to get laid in like, three years.”

“I’m not gettin’ laid! And it’s not been three years, you fuckin’ amoeba.”

The blonde grins his most troublesome smile, an idea sneaking its way into his battered brain, and leans into Komori’s space. “It’s okay, dude. You can stay at mine’s,” Komori returns his gaze with an amused glint. “Just you and I — In my big flat — all alone —”

“What the fuck! No yer not.” Like most of the time whenever he’s around Atsumu, Osamu sounds like he’s about to pop a vein. 

“And when it’s really cold, we can huddle for warmth —”

“Huddle for warmth? Where do ya live, in a fuckin’ cave?” Atsumu has to dodge the kitchen mitt thrown his way, but Osamu’s face is growing a concerning red under Komori’s expectant stare, battling lashes and all, and he knows they’ve got him good. 

“Okay, dammit.” A tired groan. “Ya can stay for a couple of days.”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Seven-year-old Osamu doesn’t understand his brother’s sudden passion for romance movies. In fact, he’s like, ninety-nine percent sure his brother should not be watching romance movies, because then he practises kissing with his pillow instead of sleeping. 

(Who does he think he’s gonna kiss, anyway? Osamu’s pretty sure he’s way too involved with the volleyball ma got them for their birthday to pay attention to anyone else. Atsumu insists that someday he’ll find someone who loves the ball as much as he does, and then he’ll kiss them, and then they’ll live happily ever after and adopt five volleyballs and maybe a dog.)

Why can’t they just rewatch their dozens of Pokémon cassette tapes instead? Or _Sailor Moon_. Motoya likes _Sailor Moon_. Motoya is cool, so that must be cool, too.

Instead, they’re stuck watching romance movies, which he doesn’t understand, and frankly, he doesn’t think Atsumu understands either. 

“I still don’t get it,” he admits, the fourth or fifth time Atsumu forces him to watch _The Little Mermaid_. (To be honest, Osamu isn’t sure what classifies as a romance movie, but the girl kisses the boy, so he assumes this is a romance movie.)

“Can’t ya see?” Atsumu points at where the mermaid-princess is swirling in a glittery white dress. “They’re in love!”

“What’s that mean?”

The twin frowns, taken aback, like the question doesn’t sit well with him. “Love is when you feel happy. With a person, ya know. Ya feel all tingly in yer belly,” he grows more confident. “Like when ya hit the ball the right way. And when ya love someone, ya marry them!”

Osamu reflects on it some more. Love is when you feel happy. Osamu is really happy when he’s eating vanilla ice cream, though he isn’t sure that counts. 

Well, Osamu is also happy when he’s with Motoya, especially when they eat popsicles together and Motoya smiles really wide ‘cause Osamu gets brain freeze, and Osamu can spot that gap in his teeth from when he lost a baby tooth a week ago. 

If he really thinks about it, he also gets that tingle in his belly, but it’s also in his fingers, when Motoya grabs his hand as they march side-by-side to the park. 

Is it normal to feel it in your chest, when your friend scoots closer to brag about his _Revolutionary Girl Utena_ trading cards, and you can smell his peach shampoo for a second or two?

Okay, so, maybe he starts to get love a bit. 

He still likes Pokémon better, though. At least for now.

(Later on, Atsumu would confess that Eric from _The Little Mermaid_ was his bi awakening. Osamu would be relieved to hear it, because that explained a lot.)

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Three days into this precarious cohabitation he got himself stuck into, Motoya knows he’s fucked up. 

Osamu is the perfect host. On his first night, he fixes a futon in the living room while Motoya is in the bathroom, and doesn’t even let him help with the sheets. He lends him his comfiest clothes, easily one size too big on him, and doesn’t even scold him for almost burning an omelette the next morning. His cooking is phenomenal, not that Motoya ever doubted it; he’s only heard great things about Onigiri Miya ever since the business started.

He works the whole work week from 12 to 2 and from 5 to 9, with the exception of Monday mornings and Wednesday evenings, and still finds the energy to chat with Motoya late into the night, whether it’s about the best ramen bar in Shizuoka or how freaky Ojiro Aran’s spikes got after high school or if Osamu’s mother is still into cheesy j-dramas.

And good _god_ , is he hot.

At some point in the past few years he’d stopped dying his hair, allowing his natural dark locks to grow out, which Motoya both digs and loathes, because the gray dye used to work as a welcome barrier between the distant high school boy and the fond memory of his childhood friend.

Then there’s that one time Osamu must have forgotten he has a guest, because he walks out of the bathroom shirtless, freezes under Motoya’s stunned stare, and rushes to his room to grab a long-sleeved polo; quick, but not quick enough for Motoya not to short circuit for a good minute or two under the weight of the devastating sight.

His arms probably got bigger than high school, his shoulders _definitely_ got broader than high school, and the glimpse he gets of his soft tummy makes Motoya want to climb him like a tower, or set something on fire, or climb him like a tower while he sets something on fire.

Basically, Miya Osamu is hot, successful, domestic, and absolutely not what he needs right now. What he really needs is an unsuspecting trophy husband who will marry him for tax benefits and maybe occasionally agree to cuddles. 

Not Mr. Worldwide Charming Soul 2020.

He doesn’t even bitch when Motoya pulls out his manga.

“You couldn’t fetch a spare t-shirt, but you brought that with ya?” he reprimands, but he sounds more amused than critical. 

Motoya is about to clarify that he didn’t know he would stay over when he packed for Osaka — but he did know he wouldn’t let anything get between him and his yearly _Sugar Sugar Rune_ reread — when Osamu turns away, muttering under his breath.

“Ya haven’t changed at all.”

The words die in his throat, and that really shouldn’t make his chest ache like it does, but it does, and it’s enough for Motoya to conclude that he’s wholly, utterly fucked.

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Atsumu calls again on Thursday, because Osamu can never have nice things.

“I bet Shouyou-kun is tired of me.” 

“Didn’t Hinata call you the light of his life like, one week ago?” Osamu grunts around a spoonful of rice. “And Sakusa was there too. Literally all of us were there, it was a group call for the wedding banquet.”

“That was platonic.” 

“He platonically called ya the light of his life?”

“Yeah!” Atsumu wails through the phone. “It’s a thing, okay! And even if it wasn’t platonic, well, Omi-kun still wouldn’t agree to it.”

Figuring his twin’s cries are going to leave him deaf, he makes the wise decision to put him on speaker.

“Omi-kun wouldn’t agree?” Osamu sighs, placing the device flat on the table. “The same Omi-kun who accidentally called ya ‘love’ once, realized you weren’t remotely put off by it, and has been callin’ ya disgusting petnames ever since?”

“It’s a revenge thing. Out of spite. It’s just what we do. I call him Omi ‘nd he throws in a ‘darling’ here and there ‘cause he wants me to die,” Atsumu whispers dramatically, like he actually believes the bullshit that comes out of his shameful mouth. “He’s out to kill me. The love of my life wants me dead, ‘Samu!”

  
“I’m the one who’s gonna kill ya if ya don’t sort yer shit out,” Osamu snaps. Komori raises his eyes from where he’s lounging on the armchair, looking every bit like he finds immense delight in his sufferings. 

“The both of them are clearly obsessed with ya, for some inscrutable reason I don’t even wanna try to comprehend, so suck it up, stop being a pussy and confess to them already,” he leans closer to the speaker for good measure. “If I have to spend another hour of my lunch break hearin’ ya talk like yer some sort of unlovable freak, I’m gonna rip my ears off, and yer tongue is next.”

The call ends like that, Osamu cutting off Atsumu’s wobbly _thanks, ‘samu_ for the sake of his appetite and turning his attention to his treasured meal.

“Ah, yes,” Komori muses, eyes falling back on the manga he’d been idly browsing through. “The true extent of family love.” 

  
  
  
  


Thankfully for his nerves, Atsumu doesn’t call again, but he does text, and for some godforsaken reason that might have something to do with that revolting family love Komori mentioned, Osamu actually takes some time to open the messages in the few spare minutes he gets before he has to head out for work.

  
  


**[** **_#_ ** **1 dipshit ]**

_hey_

_heyy_

_yo_

_hey_

_have u made your move yet_

_what_

_on motoya-kun_

_i’m not getting married_

_im not telling u to get married u dimwit_

_im just saying, its the perfect opportunity to shoot your shot_

_fire your gun_

_launch your rocket_

_i have no idea what ur saying and i dont care_

_now stop texting me_

_c’mon dude_

_u’ve been crushing on him since like_

_forever_

[Read, 04.34 p.m.]

_what happened to ‘suck it up n stop being a pussy’?_

[You blocked this contact. Tap to unblock.]

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


When Osamu is ten, Komori Motoya stops visiting his grandma in Amagasaki every summer like he used to.

Elementary school Osamu doesn’t take it too well, but then again, it’s elementary school. He gets over it soon, volleyball taking up all the extra time in the summer, and he almost forgets about tingles and magical girl anime.

Until Atsumu comes back from All-Japan Youth Camp in his first year of high school with an ecstatic _Guess who I met at training camp?_ and memories of a childhood friend they haven’t seen in five years. Motoya, who used to practise tosses with them at the park. Motoya, who cheated at _Uno_ and then laughed his way out of it. Motoya, who told them about Tokyo with stars in his eyes.

Motoya, who plays for Itachiyama now, and is suddenly too close for comfort.

Meeting him at Nationals is unnerving. They don’t really talk, but he can’t help sneaking glances whenever he’s in sight, whether on the other side of the net or at the farther end of the venue, because Komori may be different, but he still feels familiar, and he’s pretty, and he’s _good_ , much more competent than the clumsy efforts at holding the ball up from back when they were kids, and even during the school year he takes up more of his high school fantasies than Osamu would like to admit.

Even once he’s officially done with volleyball and pathetic high school crushes, Komori Motoya comes up, because of course he had to go and play against his brother on the professional stage, but it’s a lot easier for Osamu to keep his distance now that he has a business to throw all of his efforts into.

So, yeah, maybe Osamu used to have a big fat crush on Komori, but now he’s twenty-five, and he's long past over it, and Onigiri Miya is thriving, and he’s opening a shop in Tokyo next year, and he has no time for pretty libero husbands who work hours away.

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Rintarou texts while Motoya is brushing his teeth after breakfast. (Osamu let him cook an omelette again, and he didn't even burn it this time around.)

  
  


**[ rin (◠‿・)—☆ ]**

_hows osaka_

_neat_

_how’s your mysterious fuckbuddy_

_hes doing great thank u_

_it's saturday_

_the birds are chirping_

_the sun is shining_

_it almost feels like_

( ╹▽╹ )

_the perfect day_

(◠‿◕)

_to tell me who he is_

(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

_absolutely not_

(✿^‿^)

_i can’t believe u told TATSUKI but u won’t tell /me/_

_:(((((((((((((_

_i didnt tell washio shit. he walked in on us_

_and he hated it sm he never wants to talk abt it again_

_thankfully._

_how’s the sex_

_peachy_

_is he tall_

_good try_

_c’mon . u gotta tell me SOMETHING_

(｡ŏ﹏ŏ)

_u know i’ll find out sooner or later._

_good luck with that_

_anyways_

_u sucked samus dick yet_

_dude. i wish_

_sike!_

  
  


Motoya drops his wet toothbrush into the glass and saunters out of the bathroom through the hallway to Osamu's open closet. Osamu did say he could browse in there and pick anything for tonight. What does one even wear to a zoom call birthday party?

He's almost tempted to FaceTime Rintarou and ask for his opinion, but he figures the other must be either busy with his sexy secret boytoy or in the middle of a _Mermaid Melody Pichi Pichi Pitch_ binge watch, which means they’re gonna get sidetracked and fall into the usual discourse, and Rin's gonna say Karen is the best mermaid, when it's obvious it’s Hanon, and in the end they're just going to agree that Coco is the coolest because she's yellow and their volleyball uniform is yellow and yellow bitches should support each other.

How's yellow for an online birthday party?

His musings are interrupted by the ringing of his phone. 

He throws a quick glance at the screen before bringing it to his ear. "Hello?"

“...”

“Kiyo?”

  
“What.”

“Don’t _what_ me. You’re the one who called, and you haven’t called first in like, twenty-five years. What’s wrong?”

It's not that Kiyoomi hates calling, it's just that he doesn't usually find it necessary to share his distress verbally when he could easily take his time to type it out, and even when he does, he'd rather text Motoya a quick _call me when you're free_ than call first.

Motoya suspects he still lives in fear of that one time he called while Motoya was in a frenzy because of the limited edition _PreCure_ collecting cards auction and had to bear with him cursing out slow servers and the whole of the Internet community.

“Nothing’s wrong. Just weird.”

“Okay, then, what’s weird?”

“Shouyou says Miya is not getting our... hints.”

“Are we surprised?” Motoya retaliates, balancing his phone between his ear and his right shoulder so that he can continue rummaging through Osamu's stuff. “He thinks you want him dead.”

“I hold his hand on the bus. We had a candlelit dinner last week, just the three of us. Shouyou gave him a bento box the other day.”

“He makes bentos for you too,” Motoya points out.

Kiyoomi's exhale is one of pure pain. “That’s exactly the point. He only makes bentos for me, and I’m his _fiancé_. Does Miya think he would go out of his way to prepare an extra one for a _friend_?”

“Atsumu’s a tough nut to crack,” Motoya agrees pitifully just as Osamu walks in.

“Oh, he’s tough indeed,” the newcomer grumbles, taking in the few items Motoya has thrown on the bed haphazardly. “Got a tough fuckin’ skull.”

“Right,” Kiyoomi mutters into his ear, and Motoya realizes with comical horror that he must have heard him. “Miya mentioned you’re at his brother’s. Is something up with, you know.”

Of course he did. Fucking Atsumu. He should just let him pine.

“Miya should mind his business,” he deflects, hand clenching around a coat hanger. “Speaking of his business, I’ve got an idea for you.”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


The party is as chaotic as a socially distanced party can get.

Osamu didn’t see a point in throwing a birthday party during a pandemic, but Atsumu had insisted that they had to try, so here they are, 8 p.m. sharp, their guests a dozen little squares on Osamu’s laptop screen. (Sure, most of their friends are volleyball athletes and get tested weekly in order to be allowed to practice, but the idea of throwing an actual get-together with so many people wasn’t exactly CoVID-friendly, tested or not, so they had to settle for the next best thing.)

They take their turn to speak, each of them improvising embarrassing speeches to wish them a pitiful happy birthday, and it’s funnier than it should be to watch Atsumu turn a darker shade of red every time Hinata says his name. Osamu almost disconnects every time Suna tries to bring up that year they’d gone to the funfair and he’d thrown up on Akagi on the rollercoaster. Bokuto keeps interrupting because of his piss poor connection — it looks like he’s calling from some sort of hotel room — but everyone stops caring after the right amount of shots. (No one comments on how Aran is staying over at Kita’s like they haven’t been skirting around each other ever since their high school days.)

Komori starts leaning on his shoulder after his fourth glass, and Osamu has to lean back into the sofa pillows and pretend the right side of his body doesn’t feel like it’s bursting into flames every time the shorter shakes with laughter. He’s wearing Osamu’s sweater, a pastel yellow one Osamu hasn’t worn in ages because it reminds him of Tweety from the _Looney Tunes_. It’s a bit baggy on the shoulders. 

It’s torturing him.

How do you politely ask your past crush to get the fuck out of your apartment before you start catching inconvenient feelings again?

Everything would be easier if only it wasn’t so simple. If Komori’s company didn’t fit into his routine so effortlessly, like fifteen years aren’t that many after all. Like they aren’t completely different people than they used to be. 

Their palms have grown larger than when they were children picking daisies from the sidewalk, their fingers now longer, tapered, awkward. Would they still slot into each other as naturally as they used to?

Osamu wants to know so bad.

Words tumble out of his mouth, later into the night when the call has ended and it’s just the two of them in an empty living room that looks exactly like Osamu’s, but feels a bit as if a giant hand is tilting it sideways.

“Why me?”

Komori blinks a few times before he catches what he’s hinting at. He chuckles. “Oh, excuse me, let me just go grab my other childhood friend who once promised to take my hand in marriage.”

“I don’t know how to tell ya this, but elementary school pinky promises are not the unbreakable oaths ya think they are.”

“Seven, twenty-five, does it really matter?” Komori waves a hand in the air distractedly as he topples down on his futon. “Time isn’t real.” 

Something wicked surges its way up Osamu’s throat.

_That’s a lie_ , he wants to shout. _You’re a liar_. 

Because if time wasn’t real, he would’ve been married to Komori Motoya ever since he was seven. If time wasn’t real, he would hold his hand, their fingers fitting together like when they were kids. 

If time wasn’t real, he would kiss him right now, like he would’ve died to do in high school.

He’s snapped out of his dizzy thoughts by Komori’s soft snoring. He shakes his head and turns his back to the sleeping figure.

As he stumbles into his bedroom and slides into his bedsheets, his phone pings with a notification.

  
  


**[ #2 dipshit ]**

_so_

_u n motoya_

(ʃƪ＾3＾）

_shut your mouth rintrou_

_rintar_

_suna_

_fuck u_

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Komori does leave the next day.

He wakes up at 8 a.m. sharp like any other day, cheerful and regularly frazzled and only remotely hungover, and it’s both fascinating and terrifying.

Osamu leans against the wall and watches as he walks to the door.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he hears himself say. “Feel free to drop by if ya ever end up around Osaka again.” 

Komori smiles so genuinely it’s painful and something clicks in the rear of Osamu’s brain. He hurries to the bedroom and then back to the doorway, shoving the yellow sweater into Komori’s startled arms. 

“Keep it. I never wear it anyway,” he breathes out, a bit lightheaded. “Just don’t dry-clean it.”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Osamu has thought about it a lot. More than a seven-year-old should think about it, probably, but he’d wanted to be sure. 

“‘Toya,” he says, and his friend looks up from the _Ojamajou Doremi_ magazine. “I love you.”

Motoya eyes him curiously. He has to tilt his chin up, because Motoya has always been a little smaller than he is. His tiny eyebrows curve a bit upwards. “And what do we do about it?”

“‘Tsumu says when ya love someone, you marry them. But I asked ma,” Osamu frowns. “She says I can't marry ya now. She says people get married when they're old.”

Motoya blinks slowly, calculated, like when he’s about to steal Atsumu’s _Power Rangers_ cap right from his head. “How old?”

Osamu isn’t sure. 

“Suuuuper old. Like, _twenty-five_.” 

Motoya’s eyes brighten at that, and he sits back, resolute. “Okay, so let's get married when we're twenty-five.”

He makes it sound so easy, and the tingle in his belly is back, and Osamu smiles wide enough for his cheeks to hurt. “Pinky promise?”

Motoya extends his finger. “Pinky promise.”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


The season starts with a bang. 

Tachibana Red Falcons beat Schweiden Adlers 3-2, their new recruits establishing themselves as a major threat in the span of a single game.

Motoya launches himself into practice followed by match after match after match, because this is his job, but it’s his element first. This is where he shines and doesn’t know hesitation. This is where he has his teammates’ back, the cathartic feeling of retrieving a ball that was bound to touch the floor soothing to his mind.

Osamu’s single _good luck_ text the night of their first game ultimately turns dangerously close to texting everyday, and Motoya doesn’t have that much free time but he doesn’t mind making some for a phone call here and here.

It’s great, because Osamu lets him rant about his third _Cardcaptor Sakura_ rewatch, and even suggests they binge-watch _Madoka Magica_ together if Motoya ever stops by again. (Motoya thinks Osamu doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, but what’s he gonna do? Stop him?)

Osamu tells him about his favorite clients and this one recipe he’s trying out that turned out better than he expected and his latest design ideas for the new menu.

They talk about Atsumu and Kiyoomi and Akaashi and Rin. Motoya pretends he doesn’t hear Osamu’s voice turn soft when he tries to curse Atsumu for snapping him ugly selfies every morning, and Osamu turns a deaf ear if Motoya lets his concerns slip out about Kiyoomi suffering Hinata’s absence next year. 

They make plans to eventually watch Asas São Paulo games together at Kiyoomi’s (whether his cousin likes it or not).

Making plans, the simple premise of existing as a factor in Osamu’s future, is as devastating as only blind hope can get, pulling at his ribs as if to force itself into his chest.

And sometimes, Motoya wants enough to beg. To beg Osamu to fall in love with him again. To pray for more plans, for more tentatives, to give him yet another chance to be everything their high school selves couldn’t be.

He wants to beg, but he doesn’t even know how to ask.

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


The last game of the year is on December 6. Wedding preparations grow frantic as the faithful day — doomsday, as Komori baptised it — approaches, Kita ringing Osamu close to daily to ensure the wedding menu is appropriate.

He bumps into Komori pacing in front of his door the following Tuesday evening, backpack in hand and mouth spewing words Osamu wouldn’t repeat in front of children about Suna sexiling him again. 

He welcomes him inside, heart beating a smidge too loudly for his liking, and hurries to the kitchen to put some water to boil, hoping to dodge any chance of awkward silence. He fails, because in the blink of an eye the fuming cups of tea are ready and he still has no idea what to say to the same man he’s been texting incessantly for the past two months apart from ensuring he tested negative for CoVID just two days ago — _brilliant, ‘Samu, what a smooth conversation starter_ — and for the first time in his life the unexpected phone call feels like a blessing.

“Shit, ‘Samu,” Atsumu hisses as a greeting. “I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.”

“You’re on speaker,” Osamu throws a glance at his guest, assessing whether this should be a private conversation. “What is it.”

  
“I’m alone,” he inhales sharply. “Like, alone with the two of them. And not just tonight, I mean for the whole weekend, in a stupid fuckin’ cottage on a stupid fuckin’ lake.”

“How the fuck?”

“We’ve been organizing this last-minute trip with the team as some sort of bachelor party,” Atsumu frets. “But then it turns out Meian-san had this thing with his wife, and Barnes-san is literally on the other side of the country, and Adriah-san and Inunaki-san decided to finally get a grip and go on a date this weekend of all weekends, and Bokuto fucked off to Shizuoka to do _god-knows-what_ —”

A yelp from the couch cuts him off. Osamu startles as Komori shoots up and darts out of the living room, clenching his own phone. 

“‘Tsumu,” Osamu attempts, and if his tone softens a bit, well, there’s no one here to prove it. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“How —”

“Two hot totally-out-of-your-league blokes you’ve been in love with for the past three years staged a fake get-together with your professional volleyball team, and all to getcha alone and seduce ya. Just get out of the bathroom — I know you’ve been panickin’ in there for like, ten minutes — and let ‘em speak.” His finger hovers the end-call button before he thinks better of it. “It’ll be _alright_ — and don’t call after to tell me how good the sex was, I don’t wanna know.”

“Holy shit, Rin,” Komori’s screech arises from the bedroom. “You’re banging _Bokuto Koutarou_?”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


In the end, they fall into conversation easily, awkwardness slipping off Osamu’s stiff shoulders with the help of a warm meal and a handful of Atsumu and Sakusa bashing — and Suna bashing. There’s a lot of Suna bashing involved.

Midnight creeps on them at once, and Osamu is right about to turn to the comfort of his bed when a teeny, tiny, unfamiliar chirp has him flinching. 

It’s the cutest sneeze he’s ever heard.

“Yer cold,” Osamu stares the libero down accusingly, forcibly overruling the fondness in his chest. “Why didn’tja tell me?”

“What? No,” Komori squeaks, clenching the blanket tighter around him, a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m not cold at all!”

“You just sneezed.”

“I didn’t want to bother you. I can just —”

“Do ya need more blankets?” Osamu bites his tongue. It hurts. “Do ya. Want to. Maybe.”

He thinks of Atsumu’s stupid fucking advice, and then he thinks of his own stupid fucking advice. 

_Don’t be a fucking pussy._

“Sleep on the bed tonight.” It comes out more as a statement than a question.

Komori gawks. “On the bed?”

Osamu clears his throat. “On the bed.”

  
“And you?” 

“Also on the bed. It’s my bed.”

“Oh.” Komori seems to seize him up, as if he’s a rival wrestler he plans to tackle to the floor. Osamu wouldn’t put it past him. “And that’s fine with you.”

“Hurry before I change my mind and lock ya out on the balcony.”

He heads to the bedroom without looking back, very much pretending he’s not holding his breath as he slips into the sheets with his eyes shut, and congrats himself for barely trembling when the mattress dips under another’s body’s weight somewhere to his left. Even when an arm tentatively slips across his waist, a head delicately settling on his chest, he keeps his eyes closed and exhales, slow and practised and calm.

Then Komori’s breath tickles his ear as he speaks, and Osamu’s already regretting this.

“Are we huddling for warmth?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

  
  
  


•••

  
  


“So,” Motoya muses against the phone screen. “We haven’t heard from Atsumu in twenty-four hours. Did you eat him alive?”

  
“Shut up, Motoya,” Kiyoomi mumbles from the other side, tone surprisingly even and only distantly murderous, and Motoya takes it as a good sign. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

A pause.

“You’re back at Miya’s. Is this about that promise to your mother?”

“Maybe?”

“You do know you don’t have to do it. She’ll understand.”

Of course Motoya knows. It’s not like his mom would ever force him to marry anyone — all she wants is his happiness, and marriage is what happiness looks like to her, that’s all — but now he’s promised, because he is a grown adult man who is physically incapable of saying no to his mother, and Motoya, well. 

He doesn’t do well with unkept promises.

Lately, anyway, he’s starting to think there might be alternative reasons why he keeps drifting back to Miya Osamu.

Like, something about the fact that between Rintarou and his secret love affair and his cousin getting married and Tatsuki’s weird thing with that funky Konoha guy, he’s been feeling helplessly alone. 

Or that Osamu feels familiar in an unfamiliar way, nostalgia mingling with the welcome itch of something entirely new.

Or that Motoya hasn't wished to marry anyone ever since he was seven years old.

“I know,” he grumbles slowly, fingers digging into his thigh. “I’m not sure this is about my mother anymore. I’m not sure it’s ever been about my mother.”

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


“How old are they again?” Osamu whispers, eyes squinting with focus. 

“Fourteen,” Komori chirps back, fingers diving into the snack-size packet he’s hogging to grab a yellow gummy bear. He pops it into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

The girl on the screen barely avoids getting brutally slashed. The ominous music does not cease.

To be honest, Osamu is enjoying himself a lot, even if he was expecting more sparkles and cutesy costume changes. Komori’s shoulder regularly bumping against his may or may not have something to do with it.

These little girls are pretty hardcore; when he was fourteen, he was still learning how to cook an egg. He glances at Komori’s hunched figure from the corner of his eye. 

He doesn’t know what Komori was like when he was fourteen.

They take a much needed break after four episodes, because shit is going down really fast, and Osamu disentangles his limbs from the massive blanket they’ve been sharing to fix himself more herbal tea.

By the time he balances a second mug on the coffee table, Komori is sitting cross-legged, blanket abandoned at the feet of the sofa together with the plastic of the now empty gummy bears pack.

“You know, I could get used to this,” the libero beams at him. 

“You mean the tea getting ready without you moving a finger or the gobbling up my entire stock of Christmas candy at eleven in the evening?”

Komori’s pupils glint wolfishly. “The free candy, the tea, and the big pretty guy serving it to me.” 

Osamu huffs, rolling his eyes as he walks around the back of the couch and grumbles about uninvited brothers and guests and spoiled brats. 

“I guess watchin’ magic girls gettin’ murdered with a hot professional athlete isn’t so bad either,” he grunts under his breath. “I could probably go like this forever.” 

“Till death do us part?”

Osamu stills. 

It's a joke, he’s aware it’s a joke, but it still takes him half a second to regain control of his body and plop back down on the sofa, fingers clenching and unclenching experimentally. He doesn’t want to know what Komori’s face looks like. 

“Are ya still hung up on gettin’ married?”

Komori’s eyes burn holes into his right temple. He holds his breath.

“What’s it to you?”

Nothing. It’s nothing to him, because he and Komori are nothing but on the brink of becoming friends again, and that’s it. 

“I can’t let ya marry anyone,” he grits out instead, his stupid, stupid mouth with its stupid, stupid words working faster than his brain ever could. “I can’t. This is insane.” 

He can hear his heartbeat hiking up, something snapping free in the depths of his chest as he stares at the wall, voice softening down to a hum. “Ya deserve to marry someone you could love.”

Komori’s sharp intake of breath startles him. 

“Why else would I be here, stupid?”

Osamu’s neck snaps to his right, and it’s a mistake, breath knocked out at once by the intensity of the brunette’s stare, unrelenting and prying and gentle all the same.

The shorter’s palm leaves the sofa cushion to rise across Osamu’s chest, slow and tentative, reaching further til it comes to brush against the back of Osamu’s hand, sparking shivers all over his skin. “What have we been doing, ‘Samu?”

Osamu’s eyes fall to his mouth as he speaks, and he realizes just how much he’s been deluding himself. They’ve been friends, and they’ve been strangers, but not once in their life have they ever been _nothing_.

“How pathetic,” he mumbles, painfully conscious of Komori’s own fleeting gaze dropping to his lips. “You’d think after two decades of crushin’ on ya, I’d find the nerve to kiss ya already.”

“But you did,” Komori’s smile is sly, face leaning closer as his lips brush against the tip of Osamu’s nose. “On the nose, when I cried ‘cause I always scraped my knees,” he travels downwards, breath tickling Osamu’s jowls. “On the cheek, on each of my birthdays,” Komori’s eyes lid closed, forehead leaning against Osamu’s with another shaky exhale. “And I guess now is my turn.”

Osamu isn’t ready, and maybe he should’ve taken a page out of his brother’s book and practised kissing a pillow, because he finds himself helpless, gasping when Komori’s lips slot against his own. 

It must be just as overwhelming for the shorter, because his mouth parts with a whimper when Osamu’s hands grab at his thighs, dragging him closer, and the sound alone has something in Osamu’s stomach twist unnaturally.

And maybe it’s stupid, because Osamu has kissed before, has loved before, but never like this, like the relief of coming full-circle, like getting back the breath he’s been missing, and he braces himself to kiss back with all that he has, fingers melting into the fabric of Komori’s yellow sweater. 

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


When Motoya is ten, he says goodbye to Hyogo in the form of a letter.

_I will not be back this summer_ , he writes to Atsumu and Osamu Miya on pastel blue colored paper, complete with a good amount of glittery pens and glow-in-the-dark animal stickers.

Summer in Tokyo is hotter and lonelier and more oppressing than what he’s used to. At least he gets to see his cousins. 

The twins write back. Motoya bets Atsumu insisted on writing everything himself because Osamu’s calligraphy is unreadable.

_We promise we will write every month_ , they both sign. 

They don’t.

  
  
  


•••

  
  
  


Motoya’s back hits the sofa seat as he catches his breath. He’s still heaving when the words slip out of his mouth. 

“Why didn’t you write?”

Osamu halts from where he’s hovering him, cheeks painted a soft pink and reddening lips parted in uncertainty. 

“I was —” he hesitates, thumb warm against Motoya’s side under his sweater. His voice drops to a murmur. “I don’t know. I thought it wouldn’t be the same as seein’ ya. Thinkin’ about ya made me sad.”

Motoya sighs, fingers skirting up Osamu’s forearm to his face, tracing the line of his jaw to his forehead, where a frown has settled back. He’s been giving Osamu nothing but wrinkles ever since he showed up. “You don’t actually have to marry me.” 

“I would,” Osamu snaps back, and maybe he’s the insane one, because he sounds every bit like he means it. “Marry ya, I mean. Not now, for sure, but someday.”

Motoya’s heart stutters so violently he thinks it’ll never pick up again, and if it does, Motoya doesn’t register it.

“I’m goin’ to open a shop in Tokyo next year,” Osamu continues, thumb now drawing circles onto his skin. “And Shizuoka is only a couple hours away,” he leans down, till their noses are brushing and Motoya can feel his words against his lips. “So, like, how about a date for now?”

And maybe it's true — maybe there really is no difference between seven and twenty-five after all. 

Two kids learn each other all over again as adults. They're kind of completely different people than they used to be, they haven't grown into each other through the years, they don't fall in love at second sight, and there's no fireworks and sloppy hand holding. But there's a shared loneliness in their unshared fixed routines, in the lives they've built apart, and fitting together shouldn't be as easy as it is, yet it's easy enough to try.

“Yes,” Motoya breathes out, louder than he intended.

Osamu gapes for a second, eyes growing impossibly wide as if he wasn’t the one who asked in the first place, then bursts into a single, quiet snort, hands clenching at Motoya’s sides.

Motoya’s own face-splitting grin grows disgustingly fond. “What?”

The taller buries his face in Motoya’s neck, dark hair tickling his ear.

“Nothing,” Osamu murmurs against his collarbone. “I think I just got tingles in my belly.”

  
  
•••

  
  
  


The wedding is a quiet affair. Recent regulations only admit up to fifteen people to attend, so it’s just close family, plus Atsumu, who spends the whole ceremony in a corner looking absurdly pierced together, chin tilted up with pride and adoration, like he’s watching something sacred fall into place in front of him. 

Motoya, on the other hand, sobs his heart out a bit. (For the dramatics, he tells himself. Someone has to cry! It’s a wedding! He prays Kiyoomi is too caught up in his own share of giddy happiness to notice.)

Celebrations are a bit more lively, the privacy of the restaurant they rented out for the event allowing Motoya’s feisty meddlesome aunts to catch up on family gossip and whatnot. Here, at least, Osamu and Kita could join them, though only as the catering staff, which means they still need to keep their distance and Motoya can only catch a glimpse of Osamu’s sexy arms here and there. 

The grooms sit together at the end of the table as the guests wait for the first course, Atsumu with them, and it’s really messing with Motoya’s appetite. 

The gears of Atsumu’s brain dedicated to emotional reaction must have caught up with recent developments, because the blonde is trying really hard not to cry, and Hinata is kissing his cheek, and Kiyoomi is caressing his hair, and _great_ , now he's crying. And oh _no_ , Kiyoomi looks second away from tearing up too, and Hinata’s smile is so full of love it’s downright _sick_ , and Atsumu advanced to full-on sobbing — Motoya drives his eyes away from the trainwreck, because he's had enough of wholesome displays of unconditional affection for today.

He leans sideways to elbow his mother in the side instead.

She turns to him expectantly, feigning a questioning look, but Motoya knows she’s already seen right through him like he knows _Tokyo Mew Mew_ is the best anime of all time.

“I need to ask for an extension to our deal,” Motoya starts, hands fidgeting with the hems of his napkin.

“Don’t be silly,” his mother grins back, that same grin he knows he’s mirroring down to the curl at the edge of her lips. “I’m just glad it’s not just you and your _Sailor Moon_ kitten plushies for the rest of your life.” 

A dark head emerges from the end of the hallway and both of their heads whip around to catch the wink Osamu throws their way before disappearing again. Motoya’s ears turn an inevitable shade of red when his mother’s knowing eyes fall back on him again, burning with an amused glint.

“Even if it was, I know you would’ve been just fine,” his mom’s arm slips around his shoulder, holding him closer, and the embarrassment fades into a comfortable warmth in the middle of his chest. “Since you were a kid, all you ever needed to be happy was a ball.”

Motoya welcomes the embrace, a contented hum leaving his mouth, and in a moment of startling clarity he realizes he could be happy.

Komori Motoya is only twenty-five. He’s got a volleyball, the job of his dreams, an extensive collection of _Tokyo Mew Mew_ DVDs, and he gets lonely sometimes, but he could still be happy. He’s missing a trophy husband, and he doesn’t really mind. 

His trophy boyfriend will do just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: suna kin-assigns mermaid melody characters to his friends. washio is rina and komori is hanon.
> 
> this is simultaneously the longest and the fastest thing ive ever written. it might be really stupid but i think im hilarious so you have to bear with me. there are maybe too many references to dates in this fic and i hope they didn’t get too boring; i thought it was important cause i wrote this fic thinking about time. this fic is about time passing slow or fast and years and months and weeks and deadlines and about how in the end none of it really matters because fifteen years might not count at all and a week might be enough to fall for someone again and happiness comes at its own pace. 
> 
> what i’m trying to say is,, happiness doesn’t have a deadline and even when we feel low it's within our reach and i hope we all keep it in mind for this 2021. also, osakomo are in love. happy new year everyone?
> 
> ( u can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kuroy4ku/status/1347562364183474186?s=20) if you'd like to be friends :) )


End file.
